xenophobia is such an unbecoming look

This morning brought me another one of those pesky “Damnit, I wish I had my camera!” moments. The cloud pattern can best be described as looking like TV static. I’d never seen anything like it. Then, as the sun rose, the static flushed a lovely shade of pink. Upping the ante, a clear symbol was carved in the corner of the staticky field—one that changed as the clouds shifted. First it looked like an OT, then a b with a slash through its stem, and then just a regular b. Or a sperm cell.

A conversation between some friends and me on Facebook the other day:

AK: Well I just saw my first status about the telethon for Haiti and how it was on so many channels but we can’t take care of the people here...it tells you then to repost as your status. WTF???? Do people not realize how poor Haiti was before the earthquake? I fucking hate ignorant people.

ML: And the hot thing is, I bet the people bitching about how we should take care of Americans first were the people out protesting health care reform.

AK: Exactly! Someone else just posted another one. Do they not realize that the earthquake wiped out all hospitals in the city???? These poor people can’t even get medical attention!!!! I am just so saddened and disgusted by this.

ML: I believe if you are getting your body parts hacked off by a handsaw sanitized with vodka, you deserve some American dollars.

JB: People bitching about American dollars going to Haiti are ignorant asshole fools. Missy, you’re right, although they’re whining about our money being used to help foreigners instead of Americans, they were probably the first people to bitch about healthcare reform meant to help Americans. And I’ll bet none of them make any effort to donate to charities helping the American poor.

If foreigners don’t help Haiti, then nobody will. Then the country will be left to rot. It isn’t like America, where when one part of the country is devastated by a disaster (say, the Gulf Coast in Katrina), the rest of the country can step forward with money and supplies. The parts of Haiti not destroyed by the earthquake are incapable of helping the parts that were destroyed because they are dirt poor themselves. They don’t have any money or supplies to donate.

AK: oh here is that status update that has me so fired up!

America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds, and mentally ill without treatment - yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 TV stations. 99% of people won’t have the guts to copy and repost ...this

JB: Grrr. Who posted that? I’ll bet it’s someone who considers him/herself to be a devout Christian.

JB: Seriously, if you’re THAT upset about America being “neglected,” then do something about it. Donate some money to a charity helping the poor in Appalachia, donate some time to a local homeless shelter or soup kitchen. And then give some money to Haiti, too. Just because you help out some poor Americans doesn’t mean you can’t help out some poor Haitians, too. Also, regarding the people bitching about the TV benefit for Haiti, a sad but true fact is that no TV station is going to give up valuable airtime to a commercial-free benefit UNLESS a major disaster happens. NBC isn’t going to randomly hold a primetime TV benefit to help homeless people in LA or hungry people in Kentucky. I’m sorry, but modern society doesn’t work that way.

What those people are failing to remember is that TV benefits WERE held for Americans in the past. Have they forgotten Katrina and 9/11? Giant multi-channel benefits were held after both events. And there are plenty of foreign disasters that don’t get shitloads of American aid and American telethons. I don’t remember much happening after China’s massive earthquake in 2008 or Pakistan’s massive earthquake in 2005.

The day American citizens and the American government stop giving money and stop holding telethons for victims of catastrophic disasters in foreign countries is the day I’m packing my bags for Canada. I really don’t want to live in a country where people say “Tough luck” when a country is knocked to its knees, just because that country isn’t America.

If climate change unfolds as predicted, there will come a day when every country will be affected deeply by disasters (drought, mega-hurricanes, tsunamis) and Americans will barely be able to help themselves, much less foreigners. But until that point, we are still in a position to help less-fortunate countries when they are stricken by terrible disasters.

I love how so many people insist that we non-religious folks are amoral, and you can’t have morality without religion. Yet it is often the non-religious folks who are bleeding-heart do-gooders and want to help other people.

This xenophobic nonsense really irks me. I wonder how many of those people are first in line to complain not only about healthcare reform, but the US welfare system in general. I wonder how many of them are screaming that Obama is a communist and a socialist and bitching about their tax dollars being used to sustain government assistance programs

This brings to mind all the pro-lifers who go to excessive lengths to prevent abortion, then wash their hands of the baby once s/he is born. They want to slash government assistance that could help that unaborted child eat three meals a day and stay in a warm home. They want to keep socialized healthcare out of American borders even though that healthcare could be the one thing keeping the unaborted child healthy, strong, and, somewhat ironically, alive.

song heard most recently before posting: Barfly—Ray LaMontagne

Hawaii Five-Uh-Oh

Odd, but it’s now looking like I’m going to Hawaii in April instead of the Faroe Islands in August. My friend Kendra lives in Honolulu and I recently learned that she and her husband will be transferred to Seattle in May; if I want to see Hawaii on the cheap (free place to stay, no need for a rental car, buy groceries and cook at home instead of eating in restaurants), the time to do so is now. An opportunity not to be missed!

Admittedly, I’m always drawn to colder, cloudier climes, and, as such, Hawaii has never been at the top of my destination list. At the same time, never having visited a tropical location—not even Florida—I’m finding myself increasingly intrigued by the prospect of swimming in water bluer than the sky, rather than the murky Atlantic surf I’ve always known. Palm trees? I’ve never seen them. Well, no, maybe there were a few in San Francisco, now that I think about it. But to be surrounded by palm trees, pale ocean, and impossibly lush mountains? It seems exotic beyond all reckoning. Plus, as a Lost fanatic, I’m really chomping at the bit to tour the Lost set before it gets dismantled. And black sand beaches. I really want to see a black sand beach. Iceland has them, but unfortunately, I didn’t get to see any while there.

That’s another thing about Hawaii that bewitches me: the fact that it’s like Iceland’s strange twin. They’re both islands born from violence. Both have black sand beaches and volcanoes. Both are teeth-clenchingly expensive. One’s the sunny blonde twin, the cheerleader, the popular one who always gets her man. She is spring and summer rolled into one. She is flowers and ice cream cones and light. Nobody disputes her beauty; it’s a given. The other is the dark-haired gypsy twin, feral and unpredictable. She sits in the back of the classroom and never says a word. She’s cold, barren, brittle, some might say. Others are more diplomatic. She’s edgy and mysterious, a bit artsy, they allow. Not everyone appreciates or even sees her beauty, because it’s a dark beauty, an unfettered beauty; it has teeth. But it’s there, and oh my god, it’s so succulent and unrestrained. Seeing it broke my heart just when I thought I had no more heart left to break. And yet, at the same time, it also made me feel more alive than I had in ages.

Of course my loyalty lies with the latter twin. Still, I’m curious about the former. I’m curious about what it would be like to briefly alight in her magnificently dazzling world. I know it’s not fair to paint Hawaii with such common brush. It is vibrantly exotic; it does have a primal, dark energy lurking beneath its radiant face. But I think that, on the whole, it’s a safe, popular destination viewed in terms of its warmth, beaches, surfing, and fancy drinks. It’s seen alternately as a romantic destination and a foolproof fun-for-the-whole-family locale. That’s really not the case with Iceland, which, aside from being a paradise for outdoorsy types, remains stubbornly indefinable.
While there, the promise of skydiving will hook its finger at me and lure me into its fold. Ever since I went skydiving in 1998 I’ve been eager to do it again. The experience was incredible, even over the boring mid-Virginia landscape. Imagine jumping over Oahu. Imagine Diamond Head, white sand, and pristine blue water below. I think it’s well worth the $150 price tag.

I’ll need to work out the logistics of this and purchase a plane ticket once I’m back from London. Things will just be too busy and chaotic until then.

Maybe, like Stella, I can use this tropical location as a backdrop for getting my groove back. The groove I never really had, truthfully. Maybe it’s time to find it.

song heard most recently before posting:
A Caution to the Birds—The Frames

past, present, future

I am reeling (just a bit) over the fact that the decade is about to end. Never in my life has a decade passed so quickly. Didn’t we just ring in the new millennium, like, yesterday?!

I’m sad because I feel woefully disconnected from the decade and now it’s too late to do anything about it. Sure, I watch the news every day and also keep up with celebrity gossip detritus, but I’ve lost touch with much of the pop culture thrumming through the filament of the decade. I was very much in tune with styles, fads, and music during the 1980s and ’90s. This is why I was so irked by inaccuracies in The Wedding Singer and 13 Going on 30. The former was set in 1985, and I’m sorry, but no trendy woman would be running around in a circa-1983 Flashdance sweatshirt in 1985. And it’s highly unlikely a 13-year-old girl, unless she was insanely uncool (I mean even more uncool than the character was meant to be) would’ve been jamming to Rick Springfield in 1987! (I should know this—I was a 13-year-old girl in 1987!) A shaker knit sweater screams 1986 to me. I can tell you that “Almost Paradise” was a huge hit during the summer of 1984. Grunge started getting ousted from its throne by crappy dance music in 1995. 1998 brought a huge swing revival.

But this dying decade of ours? I don’t know. When I got a CD player in my car in 2000 I stopped listening to the radio. If you held a gun to my head and demanded that I rattle off 10 top-10 hits from the 2000s I don’t think I could do it. If you asked me to list 10 fashion trends from the 2000s I know I couldn’t do it. Uggs, Crocs, and…? What was fashionable this decade? I honestly don’t know. I was in my own world. Fashion-wise, I was in my own world for much of the ’90s, too, choosing secondhand clothes and vintage over anything hip and stylish, but at least I read a lot of magazines and knew what was big most of the time. I subscribed to Rolling Stone, listened to the radio, and watched MTV (back when they, shockingly, played music videos) and knew what was big on the charts even when I tended to stick with my favorite tapes and CDs. These days it’s a whole other story. I’m so estranged from youth culture and that, to a certain extent, really does depress me, maybe because it means I’m getting old.

Of course I’m in touch with my own culture touchstones from the decade. I can say, “Oh, 2002: that’s when I donated my hair to charity for the first time, switched jobs, and moved. 2004: Richard visited me and Olivia was born. 2003: I went to Scotland and that was a big concert year for me; I saw Simon & Garfunkel, Peter Gabriel, and the American Idol concert. 2008: yup, that’s when the Lebanon Fury was born.” I have a general idea of what music I favored heavily at which points in time and can identify old photos based on my haircut at the time. Short hair? Would’ve been 2000, 2002, 2007, or 2009. Scarlet’s Walk? 2003 to the core. But the goings on of the larger world seem foreign to me, as if we existed in parallel instead of intersecting.

Past

I’ve encountered loads of “decade in review” lists online; here are a few that I enjoyed:

The unpredictability of the last decade

The ’00s: Goodbye (at Last) to the Decade from Hell

Predictions made in 2000 about what life in 2010 would be like

Unknown in ’99, Indispensable Now

The 2000s in review

One Dazing Decade

Most Important Dates

Cultural Moments

Worst Predictions

Mesmerizing Crime Stories

Accidental Celebrities

Tactical Blunders

History-Altering Decisions

Overblown Fears

Sex Scandals

Happiest Endings

Startling Scoops

Internet Memes

People Who Died Too Young

Funniest TV Comedies

Best TV Dramas

Best Fictional Books

Best Albums

Most Memorable Movies

Most Impressive Debuts

Decade in Review: Our Favorite Scripted TV Shows

Decade in Review: Favorite Reality TV

Decade in Review: Our 20 Favorite Sci-Fi and Fantasy Movies

Decade in Review: Shows That Could’ve Been Great But Weren’t

The 50 Worst songs of the ’00s

Michael Musto’s Decade in Review

Present

For the first time since 2006 gave way to 2007, I don’t have any New Year’s Eve plans. None of my local friends have anything going on. Back in Pennsylvania, Beck and Amy invited me to hang out with them at Beck’s house for a stitch & bitch session, but I don’t feel like driving up to PA so soon after returning going there for Christmas. And, you know, I’m okay with ringing out the decade on my own. It offers a kind of sweet asymmetry to how I rang in the decade with friends amidst the thundering chaos of DC’s millennium celebration. I’m still adapting to this crazy new life of not needing to work every evening and weekend, so the thought of spending the night vegging on the couch with good movies, good food, and a warm blanket—with nary a work assignment or obligation in sight (actually, I do have about 10 manuscripts to proof, but those can wait until the weekend)—still sounds mighty exotic to me.

Future

I gave up making New Year’s resolutions several years ago. What was the point? They were always the same and never reached fruition. Lose weight (nope, didn’t happen). Jump into the dating pool (never had the time, energy, or guts in the end). Start writing again and get published (ha!). Kick the darkness until it bleeds daylight (okay, I had success with that one on some level, but I can’t take credit; it’s all thanks to the meds).

But this year, oh yes, this year I am making resolutions. More specifically, I resolve to follow through on projects and plans to which I’m already committed. It’s kind of a copout, really—akin to giving up candy for Lent after you’ve already joined Weight Watchers. Baby steps, folks, baby steps. In no particular order:

Buy a Nikon SLR and become even more of a photo pig. Take a digital SLR photography course and go on many, many photo safaris.

Travel. I head to London in just over a month and my plans to hit the Faroe Islands during the summer are solidifying. I’ve been saving for my big Europe trip for two years now—plugging away at it by setting aside $20-25/week. I just gave the fund a $100 infusion to help it reach the $3000 mark, and that’s where it’s going to stall. From this point forward, my weekly travel allocation will be put toward the Faroe Islands instead (and I will switch back to saving for the big trip upon my return). Also, I will try my damndest to visit Angela in Asheville and David in Chicago this year.

Embroider. I’m currently learning embroidery and have begun my first small project. If I continue enjoying the process and get better at it, I plan to start a project wherein I embroider a huge series of samplers featuring favorite lyrics from songs on my iPod.

Dabbling in miniature. I’m quite fascinated with Thomas Doyle and Erin Tyner’s work, to the point where I feel this aching need to attempt a miniature landscape of my own. For Christmas Shawn bought me some foliage and miniature funeral mourners to get me started and I vow to have at least one creation finished before 2010 is through. I’m hunting for materials and have ideas for at least two scenes so far.

Get my condo in order. I’ve been in my condo for two years and the installation of wood floors was only just completed (minus some missing trim and thresholds). I finally have an antique door to turn into a dining room table. This means that, at long last, my home is close to reaching a sort of completion. I doubt I’ll get the new kitchen cabinets I want (those may be a year or two away), but I’m committed to getting a new vanity and sink in the bathroom, some new overhead lighting fixtures, and a few new pieces of furniture, such as a bench in my bedroom that the cats can use for window gazing and a midcentury modern credenza or shelf unit for the sunroom. Now I’ll finally feel more comfortable entertaining folks in my home.

And now it’s on to the new year. I feel strangely optimistic about 2010. Maybe it’s because my gut has said for a long time that something wonderous would happen during my 36th year, or maybe it’s because even-numbered years have a more pleasing ring to me than odd-numbered years. Whatever the cause, I hope this upcoming year brings good things to all. I hope it’s far removed from 2009, which was sodden with illness, death, and job losses.

Happy New Year!

song heard most recently before posting:
Me, My Yoke, and I—Damien Rice

trashing the dress

I’m a big fan of the Trash the Dress movement, which is basically an anti-wedding photography movement. It eschews conventional wedding photos in favor of daring, edgy, beautiful, eccentric, inspired, inventive photos that often result in the wedding dress being…well, trashed. I love some of the photos so much I want to get married just so I can have a bona fide TTD session! If I ever find somebody foolish enough to marry me, those proverbial wild horses wouldn’t keep me away from this, unless I’m 95 and bent double from my disintegrating bones.

Sayeth Wikipedia:

Trash the dress, also known as fearless bridal or rock the frock, is a style of wedding photography that contrasts elegant clothing with an environment in which it is out of place. It is generally shot in the style of fashion and glamour photography.

Usually brides decide to have pictures taken on a beach, but other locations include city streets, rooftops, garbage dumps, fields, and abandoned buildings.

Some sources claim that the trend was originally started in 2001 by Las Vegas wedding photographer John Michael Cooper. However, the idea of destroying a wedding dress has been used in Hollywood symbolically since at least October 1998 when Meg Cummings of the show Sunset Beach ran into the ocean in her wedding dress after her wedding was badly interrupted.

A model often wears a ball gown, prom dress or wedding dress, and may effectively ruin the dress in the process by getting it wet, dirty or in extreme circumstances tearing or destroying the garment.

It may be done as an additional shoot after the wedding, almost as a declaration that the wedding is done and the dress will not be used again. It is seen as an
alternative to storing the dress away, never to be seen again.

Following are some of my many favorite shots. You can find your own at Trash the Dress, Trash the Dress Europe, and Flickr.




That last shot kind of reminds me of this photo:

I snapped it at an ’80s party last March when I realized that three friends were wearing the same Converse as me.

song heard most recently before posting:
Biko—Bloc Party

off to old Blighty

I decided to go to London for a few days in February. This would echo my 2006 trip in that I’d fly out on Thursday night and come back on Tuesday afternoon. “Who the hell goes to damp, dark England in the middle of February?” you may be asking. And the answer is: good fucking question. Why would I do such a thing?

Well, my friend Beck and I had a mammoth eight-country Europe trip planned in June 2010, but then we had to postpone it a year because she and her husband ended up buying a house. This was a smart move on their part; it’s still a buyer’s market and purchasing a house before November meant scoring Obama’s $8,000 tax break for first-time homebuyers. Not only that, they landed a beautiful and historic house for an unbelievable price. Like, so beautiful that I’m ready to kill them and wear suits made of their skin and assume their identities just so I can live there.

I’m very happy for them, but the delay gave me a mad case of travel blue balls. I was so revved up to take this trip that having to wait another year left me with a keening ache that would not be stilled. At the same time, I was looking for a way to reward myself for having survived five years of intense freelancing (I have begun giving up my freelancing jobs piecemeal, keeping only one for the purpose of generating disposable income). Yes, true, I’m planning to buy a Nikon D90—it’s not cheap and it would certainly qualify as a reward. But I really felt as though travel would be the best reward.

I set aside $1000 from my severance check this summer and decided to go to the Faroe Islands for a week next summer. I’ve wanted to go there for a long time, you see. And I asked Missy if she wanted to join me, since it seems like her cup of tea. She was very excited about the idea and asked if we could squeeze Iceland into the mix. Gradually the whole trip became too unwieldy—we realized we could in no way tackle the Faroe Islands and any substantial chunk of Iceland in one week. Meanwhile, I already had plans to go back to Iceland for my 40th birthday (in five years) and spend two weeks driving the entire Ring Road, checking out hot pots, glaciers, puffins, mountains, and geysers along the way. So I switched things around and decided to do the Faroe Islands on my birthday and hit Iceland next summer with Missy and her girlfriend Kat. We started doing some hardcore planning, but it was all for naught, as Missy ended up starting a new job that forbids her to take a vacation before the one-year mark, which means we’d have to push the trip back to September, when Kat is unable to go.

So I started thinking about London instead. I figured London would be cheap in the winter and easy to manage. It’s familiar and comforting and doesn’t carry the stressful weight that comes with traveling to a new country. I’ve always felt that London is my spiritual home and going there always makes me happy, so it seems like a smart trip to make. It’s bit like slipping on a comfortable old shoe that nestles against your foot just right. I realized that if I went there over a holiday weekend, I’d only have to use two days of PTO. This is a big consideration because I’ve only been at my new job for a few months, so PTO is still pretty scarce, and I need to hoard what I can for my 2011 trip. I looked at MLK Jr weekend and Presidents’ Day weekend and, finding their prices virtually indistinguishable, decided to make the latter my top contender. I don’t know why; it just felt right. The problem is the price; flights to London in the middle of winter aren’t as inexpensive as you might think. (Maybe my mindset is just trapped in the halcyon days of the ’90s when there were tickets to be had for $350.) However, the expense isn’t egregious enough to warrant me putting the kibosh on the whole thing.

An old Goldsmiths friend of mine, Mylene, is graciously allowing me to crash at her flat while there, which reduces my expenses even further. Huzzah!

I may end up going to Europe twice next year, as I’m thinking about using that aforementioned $1000 and going to the Faroe Islands after all. My research is showing that the best way of seeing the country is by car, although a substantial bus network does exist. I never rented or drove a car abroad, so I’m very nervous at this prospect. If I want to get the most bang for my buck, though, booking a holiday package that includes a car rental and then using that car to see as much of the country as possible during the week I’ll be there is surely the smartest move to make. I’ll probably ditch my ghetto TracFone in favor of an iPhone before that point so I have phone coverage overseas, in case of an emergency (I can see me getting stranded on some Faroese mountain or cliff!).

song heard most recently before posting:
We Three Kings—Liz Story

freeze frame

This morning, while driving on an I-70 ramp, I saw an apartment/condo building roof almost completely covered with birds. They had descended en masse onto this one roof, transforming it from a rather bland surface into one ridged and rippled with movement, like a terra cotta roof suddenly turned dark and alive. In a similar vein, yesterday I noticed the birds covering the back of a highway sign, latched onto the metal in a way that seemed to defy physics.

Wonderful little moments like these always make me wish for a handy camera, even though it would be downright unsafe to stop in half the locations where I see these things. Maybe this is life’s way of urging me to put down the fucking camera already and just savor certain moments as they come.

The truth is that I’ve become far too dependent on my lens in recent years, to the point where anxious dreams about my camera failing have usurped my previous recurring nightmares (the oh-my-god-it’s-time-for-finals-and-I-haven’t-been-to-class-all-semester dreams, the my-legs-are-like-lead-weights-and-I-can-barely-move dreams, the Holocaustesque I-am-being-hunted-and-I-must-flee-and-hide-hide-hide dreams). Over and over I dream that a perfect photo opportunity arises, but when I push the shutter, nothing happens.

It seems like, on some level, I’m afraid certain moments will be lost if I don’t mechanically record them, as if I don’t trust my memory to do the job. Or maybe I’m just eager to share the things I see, especially when they erupt from nowhere in the middle of a painfully mediocre landscape. My instinct is to photograph it and then rush the photos to Flickr and Facebook so I can scream, “Look at this! Can you believe this happened??” Case in point: a few months ago, as I drove home from work after a storm, the evening light suddenly exploded. The setting sun illuminated the cloud cover from behind and the entire sky became a brilliant shade of yellow, like melted butter. And the light saturated everything, made every tree and building become luminous with this unnatural, enchanted light. One part of me cracked the whip and hissed, “Step on the gas! You’ve got to get home and photograph this before it’s gone!” Another part of me trilled, “There’s no way you’ll get home in time, so just enjoy it while you can!” I tried, and I guess I succeeded, but it didn’t stop me from racing home at top speed, tearing into my condo like a proverbial bat out of hell, ripping my camera off its hook, and skidding out onto my balcony. And, no surprises here, the light was gone. Just the barest traces remained; the magic had already exited stage left, leaving nothing but the dark stage curtain dropping heavily into place.

Regardless of its subconscious underpinnings, I think the realization that I’m too dependent on my camera first surfaced in 2003 at the Edinburgh Military Tattoo in Scotland. It was a perfect August night and the whole thing—from the music and performances themselves to the dazzlingly lit castle—knocked my socks off. About halfway through the show I noticed that I was so busy juggling my camera and my camcorder and trying to capture everything on film, I wasn’t actually paying much attention to the event itself. I certainly wasn’t savoring it and letting myself live in the moment. I try to be a bit more mindful of unique experiences now, especially while traveling. During my ’05 trip I forced myself to put down the camera every once in a while and think, “Holy shit! I’m in Russia! I’m actually in fucking RUSSIA!!!!!” I’d let the realization wash over me for a bit and then I’d go back to snapping photos every three seconds. I think I need to do this more often (the mindfulness, not the manic snapping).

The photography piggery is really a double-edged sword, because although it’s pulling me out of the moment and forcing me to fixate on snagging the perfect shot, it’s also conversely forcing me to notice things more carefully. I can be a bit of a space cadet, dwelling in the haze of my own little world, and reaching this point where I view everything as a potential photo opportunity has caused me to notice minutiae that always escaped my attention in the past. For example, the intricate designs that can be found within a single icicle or the fluttering light I see when sunlight hits the rain-filled rumble strips on the sides of highways.

song heard most recently before posting:
The Snows—Maighread Ni Dhomhnaill

rest in peace, Gabby

Gabby Boyer
October 1995 – December 8, 2009

My sister Kristen adopted Gabby when she was a kitten, but after about 2 1/2 years she wound up living with our mom. This is because she grew to hate Kristen’s boyfriend (turned husband) and his dog. Gabby could be a bit high strung and nervous and just didn't mix well with Bryan and Pepper. With Mom she had a long and very happy life.

I have to thank Gabby for being the reason I now love cats. I was raised with dogs and growing up I really had no contact with, or interest in, cats. I was 21 when Gabby entered my life and I was immediately smitten. She really paved the way for me to adopt my own cats two years later, and in the interim, she worked the same magic on Mom. She, too, had never been a cat person, yet eight months after Gabby arrived, there Mom was, adopting Cleo.

So thank you, Gabby, for showing us the error of our ways and helping us realize that cats can be just awesome as dogs. You were a fabulous ambassador for felines everywhere.

Sharing a window with my cat Shoah (d. June 2001).

Lounging in a window. She did so love the sun!

With Pepper, before she grew to hate her.

With her sister Cleo, who passed away six months ago.

Rest in peace, Gabby. I hope you’re now reunited with Cleo and living a fantastic life in cat heaven with lots of catnip carrots by your side.

song heard most recently before posting:
Hold Onto Hope Love—Amy Stroup

everything that has been shall be again

I think the cyclical nature of fashion and pop culture is fascinating, especially since it often seems to follow a 20-year loop. For example, there was a resurgence of ’50s love in the ’70s, when Laverne & Shirley and Happy Days became huge hits and saddleshoes made a comeback. The ’80s brought a hankering for the ’60s; suddenly there was an explosion of Vietnam-themed movies and TV shows, peace signs, and hippie fashions. The ’70s returned in the ’90s; I remember when listening to classic rock became popular and platforms and bell bottoms started reappearing.

Now, in the ’00s, we’re seeing a return of ’80s and even early ’90s fashions and pop culture detritus (the cycle seems to be speeding up!). I walk into Claire’s and suddenly it’s a time warp from my childhood and early teens. Michael’s is selling a “Make your own Thriller jacket with duct tape” kit. Countless ’80s movies and TV shows are being remade (a lack of originality in Hollywood is hardly new, may I add). Oh, and the toys, the toys! Strawberry Shortcake, Care Bears, Cabbage Patch Kids, Pound Puppies...all the toys I loved and owned are back. It’s surreal to see my childhood suddenly reappear on store shelves. My five-year-old niece loves it, though; she loves the fact that I’ve got Cabbage Patch Kids, a Care Bear, a Pound Puppy, and a Hello Kitty in a box in one of my closets.

Anyway, the other day Terry pointed out to me that he’s seeing the same gigantic black-rimmed glasses I wore in high school popping up in American Apparel ads. Apparently hipsters are now flaunting the gigantic glasses look, while mainstream folks are resurrecting pegged (ie, tight-rolled) jeans and, god help us all, stirrup pants and harem (aka MC Hammer) pants.

The big, black glasses in question. The photo on the left is me in 1991.
The middle photo is me on New Year’s 1992-93.
The photo in the right is a modern-day hipster.

Even the pale-framed glasses I wore in junior
high (right) are making a comeback!

Katie Holmes shocked me when she started stepping out in
pegged jeans in 2008. On the left is a photo of some of my friends taken in 1992.
No less than three of them are sporting pegged jeans in this shot, and plenty more
of us not in this photo were doing the same thing.

How do bad fashions come back into style? Who decides these things? Is it completely random? Is it the result of an inside joke between fashion industry types? Does one hipster walk around in a Members Only jacket to be ironic and unintentionally ignite a firestorm of trendiness? I’m honestly very curious about this.

I think 9th grade was the last time I stopped following fashion trends. By 10th grade I was settling into a groove of wearing what I wanted to wear, most of which was black and oversized. Yeah, I did the grunge thing, but that wasn’t because grunge was trendy. It’s because I liked being sloppy and unwashed. To this day, I continue to wear what I want to wear, and I keep most of my clothes for a very long time, through countless fashion eras. Sometimes I love a trend (be it flared jeans or a long belted sweater) and jump on the bandwagon, not because I want to blend in but simply because I love the style. And I continue to wear that style long past its heyday, for as long as I continue to love it and as long as it continues to make me feel good. I just can’t imagine spending a fortune on a new wardrobe every year in order to stay in fashion. Perish the thought!

song heard most recently before posting:
Soul Cake—Sting

one of these things is not like the other

I am sick to death of people repeatedly comparing President Obama to Hitler and Stalin. It’s astounding how often this comparison gets bandied about online. How are stem cell research, healthcare reform, and the Kyoto Treaty on par with the imprisonment and murder of millions?!

This comparison is an insult to every one of Hitler and Stalin’s victims and their loved ones. If I lost a loved one to Auschwitz or the gulags I would be livid at people comparing my mother’s killer or my father’s torturer to a man who is trying to guide the US away from Bush’s legacy of isolationism, war, environmental apathy, corporate kickbacks, and melding of church and state.

Even if you dislike Obama and disagree with his policies, you have to at least admit that he HASN’T MURDERED MILLIONS OF PEOPLE. For chrissake, at least have enough decency to avoid comparing him to two of the worst mass murdering psychopaths of the 20th century! I couldn’t stand Dubya—I even participated in two marches on Washington against him—but I never once tried to convince myself or other people that he was equivalent to A) an architect of genocide, or B) a dictator who stripped his people of their civil rights and killed millions of them through an engineered famine and a brutal labor camp system.

I know a lot of folks have a bone to pick with the idea of universal healthcare, so maybe their line of thinking goes like this: universal healthcare = socialized healthcare --> socialized healthcare = socialism --> socialism = National Socialism (Nazis) and communism. Or maybe they just didn’t pay attention in history class and therefore don’t understand what the hell they’re saying when they claim that Obama is equivalent to Hitler and Stalin.

I want to add that socialized medicine does not equal communism. There are some countries, such as those in Scandinavia, that have been quite successful with socialized medicine. They do not use the KGB to spy on their citizens. They do not ship off their freethinkers to Siberia. Comparing socialized medicine with communism is like the proverbial comparison of apples and oranges (or apples and Subway trains). Also, not all socialism is Nazism and not all communism is North Korea- or Soviet-style communism. In their purest form, socialism and communism aren’t evil. I’m not saying I agree with all their tenets (I’m too materialistic, yo)—all I’m saying is that they got corrupted over the years by various regimes, so you cannot compare their root to their branches. It’s like the difference between what Jesus taught and what fundamentalist Christians teach. They are completely different ideas sharing the same name.

Some friends discussed this very issue on Facebook recently; here are some of their comments:

No offense, but I fail to see the similarities between Nazi Germany and the present day US. If anything, our president is the exact opposite of Hitler—encouraging a multiplicity of ideas & championing diplomacy over/against aggression. Even the mythical “socialist” connection is laughable. Hitler did not desire to provide for all people—he chose to systematically annihilate over 17 million individuals who did not think or look like him. –KLHF

I get that Hitler and Obama were both charismatic individuals and that they both ran on platforms advocating equal rights, peace, and propriety, and a general promise for hope and change. BUT That doesn’t mean Obama is going to turn evil like Hitler and start killing Jews, gays, gypsies, and the mentally handicapped nor is he hell bent on world domination! Why is it when a politician is charismatic they get compared to Hitler? There are many charismatic people in the world that he could be compared to. Being charismatic doesn’t make one Hitler, nor does wanting to set up national healthcare; look at how many countries in the world have national healthcare and I don’t see those countries setting up concentration camps. –RMC

One could even argue that of all the people discussed in this thread, Jesus was the closest to the core tenets of socialism. –KP

I too am interested in how providing healthcare to those who aren’t rich is contrary to Christianity. When did feeding the poor and taking care of the sick become the work of the devil? I must have been reading the New Testament wrong all these years. –KP

I really don’t see how wanting to help your fellow citizens is the antithesis of Christianity or how it is a bad thing in general. Clearly the welfare system needs an overhaul and clearly there are people who abuse the system. But it doesn’t mean that it should be eradicated completely—especially when it comes to making sure everyone has access to healthcare and food.

Funny how the people who scream the loudest about liberals being “bleeding hearts” are so often the ones who also profess to be the strictest Christians. If anybody should be a compassionate bleeding heart, it’s a Christian. Yet so many of the most compassionate, giving people I know are atheists. –JB

I may be mistaken but didn’t Jesus feed the poor and care for the sick? Or maybe Jesus just did what was best for big business.

On another note I fail to see how morality and religion are in any way related to government. “Family Values” is not a political issue any more than manners or common courtesy are political issues.

As for those who would compare Obama to Hitler. Why don’t you ask a holocaust survivor if that is an accurate comparison? Why don’t you ask a German who lived through that time and perhaps was bullied into the “cause” how they feel about that comparison. It’s asinine, inaccurate, and downright offensive.
–TM

song heard most recently before posting:
Mild und Leise—Richard Wagner

banning books

Last week marked Banned Books Week. In a somewhat similar vein, I also noticed a news story detailing how former president George W. Bush once denied JK Rowling a Presidential award because he believed Harry Potter “encouraged witchcraft.”

When discussing this with friends, Shawn argued that spells and flying brooms aside, the Harry Potter books ultimately focus on good trumping evil and the power of friendship. I want to add to his remarks one thing that Dubya needed to consider: this was the first series of books to get modern-day kids—across all demographics and many nationalities—to love reading. It had the power to pull them out from behind their computers and Wiis and actually read books. And big books at that. It’s no small feat getting a child to read a 700-page book! It encouraged them to use their imagination, too. The president should have celebrated that, not condemned it!

The book-banning thing always amazed me. I never understood how books that are staples in so many high school English classes (Tom Sawyer, To Kill a Mockingbird) can be banned in other schools. You’d think there’d be some sense of uniformity across the board. Also, I understand why a high school might be afraid to keep Lady Chatterley’s Lover on its shelves, but what the hell is so offensive about Of Mice and Men? I don’t buy into their whole “Oh, it contains violence and sexual innuendo” bollocks. As Shawn pointed out, the Bible is rife with violence and sexual innuendo. And if the alleged violence in a classic novel were truly a problem, no high school English classes would teach those books. Not that this would justify banning the book, mind you. To me, reading is reading, and it’s always a good thing. Who cares if a teen boy only wants to pick up Lady Chatterley’s Lover to read the dirty bits. At least he’s reading.

The people who ban books are so often punchdrunk with fear. Books are powerful tools—I understand that. There’s a quote in my collection that comes to mind: “Books can be dangerous. The best ones should be labeled ‘This could change your life’.” Books truly can change your life, and book banners are afraid of that. They’re afraid, for example, that their good little Christian children might start questioning their faith if they read a certain book. But you’ve got to let your kid think for him or herself and you’ve got to believe that you did a solid enough job of raising to him or her to ensure that s/he won’t immediately descend into a life of debauchery and murder just because s/he reads Crime and Punishment and s/he won’t start blowing up buildings just because s/he reads The Anarchist’s Cookbook. I recently finished reading a book about fascists taking control of America (It Can’t Happen Here, by Sinclair Lewis) and it didn’t inspire me to become a fascist dictator.

To skitterish parents I want to say: Raise your kid as best as you possibly can and hope that when you send him or her out into the world, s/he’ll be okay and will be able to read books about anything and everything and still behave responsibly afterward.




song heard most recently before posting:
From the Morning—Nick Drake

coming back to life

I have woefully neglected my blog over the past year. Although I can’t pinpoint a specific culprit, I suspect my apathy primarily stems from a mix of Facebook infatuation (it’s hard to pull myself away from the addictive drug of that damn site), work-related exhaustion (my freelancing schedule is as insane as ever, although that will soon change), and work-related stress. To keep everything from burying me alive I had to pare my life down to the bone: work, sleep, eat, shit. And, uh, Facebook. My reading suffered, my photography suffered. I withdrew and just focused on getting through the biggest tasks at hand, letting everything else gather dust on the wayside.

As for the work stress, long story short…okay, not so short…during summer 2007 there was a coup d’état in my department at work; the end result was positive in some ways and negative in others. I was pushed into a new job that I didn’t enjoy—one that was a poor fit for me (the proverbial round peg in a square hole, you might say). I’m not going to whine about how unhappy I was or fling punches at TPTB; there’s no sense in that. I will say, however, that I became very paranoid that I was going to get fired. This was a constant, grinding paranoia that went on for a full year and blotted out nearly everything else in my life. Even writing in my silly little blog seemed like too much work, especially since the situation at work really damaged my self-esteem.

And then, in late June, it happened. No, I didn’t get fired: I got laid off. “Well,” you might be saying, “There is a recession on.” Yes, but that’s not the reason why I lost my job. Nor was my work performance to blame. Again, I won’t go into specifics, but I will say that I lost my job for an incredibly inane, insulting reason—one that still makes me clench my teeth. And the whole thing was handled rather badly, which added further salt to the wounds.

When it happened, a quote from my collection instantly sprang to mind:

… is there some catharsis unknown
to me, when what you fear will happen
happens and there’s nothing more to fear,
and one reaches that calm meadow where
the sacred few are allowed to rest
beyond the walled, polluted city
that cast them out?
–David Bergman, “In the Waiting Room”

The author is writing about AIDS but in my mind I hijacked the poem to represent how I felt when my all-consuming fear finally became a reality and I got booted from the safe familiarity of my job of nearly seven years. When one of your worst fears becomes a reality, it’s both paralyzing and strangely comforting. It’s over. The smothering cloth of fear and worrying are finally over. You can quit holding your breath.

What’s funny about this whole thing is that I was suddenly delivered a piece of luck that was utterly alien to me and my birds-shitting-on-my-head kind of life. Namely, I was offered a new job—a much better-paying job—less than 24 hours after getting canned. I know, right? It’s insane!

I’d been looking for a new job for six months. I loved the company I worked for, despite some backstage political and bureaucratic nonsense that I could’ve lived without. I loved the cause for which they were fighting. I loved many of the people. It was a great work environment is so many ways. But the salary…ah, the salary. The company was a nonprofit, so I couldn’t begrudge their pay scale, especially during a recession. I believed in the cause (still believe in it, actually) and accepted that working there meant getting a second job. So, to make ends meet, pay my bills, and keep a roof over my head, I had to supplement my income with freelancing work. A mind-jarring amount of freelancing work.

After several years of this, I was just so fucking burned out—I can’t even describe it. I put up with it for a long time by keeping myself on autopilot, running solely on adrenaline, blindly juggling without thinking. Then we had the coup at work and suddenly the vibe in my department was chilly and stressful, not warm and enjoyable, and suddenly I could do nothing right. My self-esteem disappeared; that loss was quickly followed a loss of my freelancing momentum. I slammed into a brick wall. All the balls I was juggling crashed to the floor and I was never able to regroup and get myself back into the groove that kept me plowing ahead for so long. I became flustered and frazzled; I began making mistakes (to a degree where one of my freelancing jobs was even taken away from me) and I couldn’t concentrate. Juggling seven or eight gigs felt very overwhelming to me. I just couldn’t deal with it anymore and knew I had to get out. I created an art project that illustrated how trapped I felt:

I knew it was essential for me to reclaim myself, reclaim my leisure time, my spend-an-entire-weekend-reading time, my meandering time, my photography time, my me time.

Unfortunately, dropping the freelancing meant having to get a new job, because there was no way in hell I could pay my mortgage and bills on my core salary alone. So I blew the dust off my resume, snagged some reference letters, signed up for job search websites, and began looking for something new, focusing mainly on federal government jobs. A friend took a few how-to-get-a-federal-job courses and gave a bunch of us tutorials afterward to help us craft acceptable federal resumes. Applying for federal work is horrific in its own right, and thanks to the freelancing, I just didn’t have the time to apply for more than, like, one job per month. I applied for some private sector jobs as well, but didn’t get anywhere—not even a nibble. Maybe it was because of the recession or maybe I just suck, I don’t know, but it was very emotionally depleting.

Then, about six months later, my ex-boss called me and said that the guy who replaced me seven years earlier (and was later promoted to a manager position) was leaving the company, so she wanted me to apply for the job. My eyes bugged out on their stalks when I learned that this would bring a $19k salary increase. My new salary would be more than my current core salary and freelancing earnings combined! A slam-dunk solution to my problem, right? Well, not really, because I am a glutton for making things unnecessarily difficult. I fretted incessantly about the new commute (which would be awful) and my ability to do the job. I can’t emphasize enough just how much my job had pulverized my self-esteem by that point. I honestly felt like I was incapable of doing anything, especially the challenging job being offered to me. So I hemmed and hawed, agonized, made pro and con lists, and finally yelled at myself for being all woe is me about having to pick between two jobs during a recession when so many people would kill to have any job at all. Did I mention that all this wailing and gnashing of teeth took place over the course of only two days? I love to cram as much drama into as tight a space as possible, apparently.

Exactly two days after my job interview, I got laid off. As shell-shocked as I was, I also left the HR director’s office grinning, almost giddy with the realization that the decision of whether I should take the new job had been made for me. It had been plucked out of my hands. And rather than feel insulted or pissy at having a major life decision ripped away from me, I was absolutely relieved. For a minute I kind of understood the otherwise inexplicable Christian patriarchy phenomenon where women surrender all their decisions to their mates.

Another stroke of good luck: I had a full month off between jobs. My layoff was on June 19th and my new job began on July 20th. When was the last time I had a full month off work? I think it was probably the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college when I never bothered to get a job. So, 16 years. Wow. It felt incredible.

Don’t get me wrong…my unexpected vacation had its share of tensions, such as wrangling with the dense bureaucracy of the unemployment office (after stringing me along for weeks, they finally said they couldn’t give me any money because I was going to receive a severance package. So that’s why I'd been paying into the unemployement system for 20 years—so they could deny me even a dime when I finally needed it? Nice.) and fighting to actually get my severance check (it took my ex-employer a full month to get it to me, and that was with me nagging and prodding). I got really sick a few days after the layoff, too; I’m not sure if it was a bad reaction to some Thai food I’d eaten the day before or if it was flatulence gone wild, but either way, I was in agonizing pain, couldn’t walk upright for days, and was thisclose to going to an emergency clinic. Plus much of my time was spent being endlessly paranoid that either my new company would change their mind about hiring me (especially after learning about the layoff) or that my old company would withdraw their severance offer after learning that I’d been hired somewhere else right away. And, of course, I worried incessantly about the new job and my ability to do it.

Still, I came up with a laundry list of fun things to do during my break, and, of course, I only accomplished like three of them. I’d underestimated just how quickly a month can zip by when one is not working. I got some reading, relaxing, and freelancing done, and I made a few day trips: Harper’s Ferry (two trips, one to explore the town and another to spend an afternoon swimming in the river) and Annapolis. I went on a massive hike with friends in Pennsylvania. I attended a friend’s playhouse performance in Delaware. I actually cooked—something I never do—making six meals from scratch. I worked on a few art projects and puttered around the house. It was very, very nice.

The new job has been good so far but the commute is awful, as suspected. I desperately tried to make a 8-4:30 schedule work because I’m still freelancing and need to get home at a reasonable hour in the evenings to plow through my perpetual proofreading backlog, but it just didn’t happen. Again with the round peg in the square hole. Although I was getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am each day I was still sitting in traffic for at least 90 minutes (usually longer). For a 36-mile drive! So this week I surrendered to the inevitable: I hoisted the white flag and switched to a 10-6:30 schedule. My commute is now a billion times better but these working hours are interfering horribly with my freelancing. However, I plan to quit all but once of my freelance jobs this month, so the freelancing thing won’t be an issue much longer.

I really want to make an effort to write in this blog more often from this point forward. Things will surely be spotty at first, while I get through the last of my freelancing, but hopefully it won’t be as bad as the past year when I neglected it altogether.


song heard most recently before posting:
Shelter—Ray LaMontagne

R.I.P., Cleo

Cleo Boyer
October 1995 – June 28, 2009

The smallest feline is a masterpiece. –Leonardo Da Vinci

There are no ordinary cats. –Colette

Who among us hasn’t envied a cat’s ability to ignore the cares of daily life and to relax completely? –Karen Brademeyer

... even out of unspeakable grief, beautiful things take wing. –AR Torres, “The Lessons of Loss”

My mom adopted Cleo in June 1996, after she was found hiding under a car in my sister’s apartment complex’s parking lot in Hershey. She was six months old, pregnant, and had herpes—not off to the greatest start in life. Thankfully things got much better once she became a truly beloved member of our family.

She inspired me to adopt my own cats, Plath and Shoah, one year later. When I saw them—all fluffy and striped and wonderful—I squealed, “That must be what Cleo looked like as a kitten!” That’s why I chose them: because they were gray mackerel tabbies just like Cleo, so therefore they must have been awesome cats. And they were.

Cleo was an awesome cat, too. She was incredibly laidback and mellow; she knew how to rock the “Whatever, dude” attitude more than any other cat I’ve met. She was unflappable. She loved lying on the self-heating pad Mom kept in her home office, curling up next to Mom and Bill on the sofa, planting herself in front of the fireplace, Catsip milk, bonito fish flakes, and begging for treats. There’s now a Cleo-shaped hole in our family’s life and she will be missed. Much.

Rest in peace, Cleo! I hope you, Benny, Shoah, and Pepper are all together now, happy and secure, in pet heaven.

Cleo and her sister Gabby.

Cleo hanging out with young Shoah, 1997.

song heard most recently before posting:
Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14—Sergei Rachmaninov

35

Last Thursday I officially hit the big 3-5. It’s the midpoint of my thirties, when the pendulum of time begins its downswing toward 40. Only 15 years are left until I’m an AARP member!

I took both Thursday and Friday off work. On Thursday I spent the day at DC’s National Museum of Crime and Punishment, which was somewhat overpriced (especially in a city where so many of the museums are free) but definitely worth seeing, albeit without the loud teens (the proverbial bulls in a china shop) plowing through there on a school trip.

The America’s Most Wanted studio in the basement of the
Crime and Punishment museum. Students were
attending some sort of class in there, so I couldn’t explore.

This was followed by a far-too-rushed exploration of Artomatic, where I somehow managed to miss two entire floors. It was wonderful; I saw so many things I wanted to buy! I can't afford any of it, of course, but I do plan to keep an eye on those particular artists’ websites, with the hope of being able to buy one or two of their pieces in the future.

The view from Artomatic: rain, construction,
and the US Capitol building sheathed in smoke from a nearby factory.

In the evening I met my friend Susan for a birthday dinner at Fado, an Irish pub in Penn Quarter that I really like. All in all I’d say it was a successful, pleasant day (despite the rain)—one with a giddy undercurrent of knowing that in exactly one year I’d be tripping the light fantastic in Chernobyl and Kiev.

On Friday Susan and I tackled some DIY stuff in my condo. We laid peel and stick floors in my foyer (a slower process than it would seem, due to the corners that needed to be cut) and began the arduous process of painting my kitchen appliances with stainless steel paint. At night we went out to dinner with our friend Cynthia for my birthday. Saturday was filled with more appliance painting (I wanted layers and layers of paint on those suckers so it would last) and I miraculously managed to do all the tiling in my kitchen on my own. I wanted to do the bathroom, too, but was leery of the tile cuts involved around the toilet and decided to postpone the project.

The new floor in my foyer.

My faux stainless steel fridge. I haven’t
yet figured out what I’m going to do with that glaring
white water dispenser!

song heard most recently before posting:
Generosity—Mirah

Goodbye, Pepper!

Pepper, 1996-2009

The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog.
–Samuel Coleridge, Table-Talk

It is a sobering thought that cats and dogs are more loyal, trustworthy, and reliable than human beings.
–Desmond Morris, Dogwatching

It’s because they’re dogs, because they’re what we can’t be, as hard as we try, that we cherish their virtues. It’s why we idealize and extol their unfailing loyalty, patience, nobility, courage, selflessness, and devotion—so exemplary in them, so elusive in ourselves. Want perfect love? Try heaven. The closest thing to it you’ll find on earth is a dog.
–Lionel Fisher, Celebrating Time Alone:
Stories of Splendid Solitude

… but death was sweet, death was gentle, death was kind; death healed the bruised spirit and the broken heart, and gave them rest and forgetfulness; death was man’s best friend; when man could endure life no longer, death came and set him free.
–Mark Twain, Letters from the Earth

Pepper was my sister Kristen and her husband Bryan’s dog. Bryan adopted her from a Pennsylvania animal shelter in late 1996, when she was still technically a puppy, and met Kristen not long after. I met Pepper for the first time in early 1997 and was instantly smitten. It’s a good example of how deeply animals can touch us even when they’re not our pets. She was never my dog—only my niece (as I like to call her)—but I loved her as though she were my own dog. I just adored her through and through.

Her health began failing in recent months; the changes in her between late April (the second to last time I saw her) and May 25th (the last time I saw her) were shocking. She lost a lot of weight and muscle mass and was so much more subdued than I’d ever seen her. She was euthanized yesterday, May 27, 2009, after a long, happy, well-lived life.

I hope doggy heaven is treating you wonderfully, Pepperoni. You deserve an eternity of tennis balls, squeaky hedgehog toys, people food, and love!

Here are some photos I grabbed from my collection. I still need to snag some shots of Pepper with Bryan, Kristen, their other dog Mia, and their cat Harley.

Pepper with my niece Olivia and me, April 2009.

Christmas 2002.

Christmas 2000.

Christmas 1998.

Thanksgiving 1999 (she is wearing my Halloween tiara).

Fetching a tennis ball at a park near my apartment
in Beltsville, summer 2000.

Hiking in Great Falls, summer 1998.

Olivia and Pepper, spring 2008.

Rockin’ the cool shades, spring 1999.

Pepper, Benny (on my lap), and me, spring 1997.

Pepper with Kristen’s cat Gabby, ca. 1997.

Pepper and Olivia, October 2007.

Pepper and me at the Lincoln Memorial,
late winter 1998.

At Delaware Beaches State Park on my 24th birthday,
June 1998.

Hiking at Seneca Creek State Park, fall 1999.

song heard most recently before posting:
Sorrow—Klaus Badelt & Lisa Gerrard